I have kept my temper too long, short-circuited my own paths for anger by forcing a single outcome over and over and over and over.

No, I’m not mad, you’re fine, of course you meant or didn’t mean that.

I regret times I didn’t take offense, times I didn’t raise my voice. I regret allowing other people in my circumference to feel comfortable in their poor choices and poorer ideas. I regret the inherent inequity of who I did take issue with and who I avoided. I regret failing to tell many, many powerful men to their faces how deeply wrong they are. 

I regret not telling you how much you hurt me. I regret excusing you from the outcomes, the bruises, the scars, the way I keep my back to the wall, the holes in my drywall. I regret healing.

I have kept my temper too long and what sits in my chest, threatening to douse me whole, is not my own anger—which people have told me is toxic (not life saving) and poisonous (not evidence)—but is in fact the detritus of years of terrible treatment at the hands of people who ought to have loved me. 

I have kept my temper in check, stayed nice, kept sweet, played along, greased the wheels, pushed forward, glossed over, reassured, flattered, flirted, and accepted my way through life. I regret it.